There. I’d admitted it. He was big and bad and obviously well-acquainted with violence. I’d had enough violence in my life, thanks. Besides, there were only three possible outcomes if the two of us actually spoke.
1) He’d tell me to ~bleep~ off.
2) He’d tell everyone I was ~bleeping~ insane.
3) He’d ask me who the ~bleep~ I thought I was because he’s positive he’s never seen me before.
I didn’t know him, and yet I easily imagined him cussing. A lot. Kat would so not approve.
“—I think you’ll find her work symbolic of—”
Ms. Meyers’s voice intruded, trying to claim my attention, but my dilemma quickly returned to center stage. I sooo wanted to talk to my mom about Cole and what had happened. Because of my dad, she’d understood weird in all its varying shades and degrees. She wouldn’t have laughed at me. She wouldn’t have rushed me in for an emergency therapy session. She would have sat me down and helped me reach a conclusion that satisfied me.
I missed her so much and wished, so badly, that I’d been nicer to her there at the end.
Well, well. What do you know? My mind could go somewhere other than Cole Holland today.
No way would I mention any of this to Nana and Pops. They’d freak—not that they’d ever show me. For me, they would smile and pretend all was well, never realizing I’d once caught them whispering in their bedroom.
Poor thing. Therapy isn’t working. Will she ever recover, do you think?
Not sure. All I know is that I hate that she’s hurting so badly, but there’s nothing I can do. She won’t let me.
I know. I’ve never felt so helpless.
They’d tried to get me to go to the movies, ice-skating and shopping, things kids my age supposedly liked to do, but my answer was always the same: no. Each time, they had kissed me on the forehead and said, “Maybe next time.”
Refusing to worry them further, I’d swallowed back the words Maybe never. I spent most of my time in my room, and that’s the way I liked it.
I had a routine. I spent my mornings reading The Iron Fey series. I spent my evenings listening to the mix tapes my dad had made for my mother. (I was staying in her old room and had found her old cassette player.) I spent my nights searching for monsters. On weekdays I left the house for school and on weekends I left for church. That was it.
The bell rang, shattering my thoughts like a fist through a mirror, and I bolted upright. Ms. Meyers was stacking books on her desk. Kids were already filing out of the classroom. I gathered my stuff and rose to do the same.
“Alice Bell,” Ms. Meyers called before I could leave.
Our gazes met, locked. “I prefer Ali.”
She nodded and offered me a warm smile. “I looked over your transcript from Carver Academy and liked what I saw. With straight A’s, I’m guessing you didn’t sleep in class.”
Ouch. “I wasn’t sleeping, I promise.”
Her smile grew, letting me know that she wasn’t offended. “I know reading and writing aren’t everyone’s favorite thing, but give me a chance tomorrow, okay? If you don’t like what I’m saying, if I fail to engage you, fine. Sleep or daydream or whatever you want to call it.”
Fair enough. “You have my word.”
“Good.” She motioned to the door with a tilt of her chin. “Go on. You’ve got places to be, I’m sure.”
I stepped into the hall—and prayed the world would suddenly end. Frosty and one of his more feral friends were waiting for me. Clearly. Their gazes zeroed in on me—arrow, meet bull’s-eye—and they leaped into motion, closing the distance between us. I bet they were here to warn me away from Cole.
How humiliating! I kept walking, and they kept pace beside me, flanking me. Testosterone walled me in, neatly shutting out the rest of the world.
“S’up. I’m Frosty,” the rough-looking blond said. Up close, I saw that his eyes were not completely brown but a pretty blueberry with flecks of chocolate.
My stomach growled. Okay, so I was hungry, and that was probably why his eyes reminded me of delicious food. So what. An appetite was a good thing, and I’d been without one all summer.
“This here’s my boy Bronx,” he added when I failed to respond.
“I’m Ali.” Either I hadn’t noticed Bronx earlier—so not likely—or he’d been running late. “Bronx, huh? Is that where you’re from?”
“Nope,” Frosty answered for him.
Bronx said nothing, but oh, did he stare. For a guy with barbells in both of his eyebrows and hair dyed an electric blue, that stare bypassed demon-dark and went straight to devil-damned.
“Okay,” I said. What else was I supposed to say?
A group of jocks passed us. To my surprise, they practically flattened themselves against the row of lockers to get out of the way of my giant, muscled bookends. I could even smell their fear, an acrid scent coating the air between us, stinging my nostrils.
So weird.
At my old school, jocks had ruled, their word law, and the only thing they’d worried about was the next game. Different schools, different worlds, I guess.
“Boys,” I heard Dr. Wright say. I picked up the clack clack of her heels before I spotted her at the end of the hall. “You’re not manhandling Miss Bell, correct?” She spoke as she walked toward us. Her gaze remained locked on Frosty. “I’d hate to have to ruin the rest of your day with detention.”
“No reason to ruin, Dr. Wright,” he said with military precision at the same time I said, “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t satisfied. “What do you want with her?”
Frosty smiled, all innocence. “Just to talk, what else?”
“Why?”
Were all principals this nosy?
“Because she’s cute?” Frosty replied, a question rather than a statement.
In that moment, I could have fallen flat on my face and experienced less embarrassment.
Dr. Wright’s suspicions were not assuaged, judging by the narrowing of her eyes, but she briskly passed us without trying to stop us. “Just make sure you watch your mouths or I’ll have to call your guardians,” she threw over her shoulder.
Frosty shuddered. Bronx saluted with mock respect.
“So how do you know Kat?” Frosty asked me, jumping back to the conversation. As determined as he looked, he was done with distractions.
I relaxed. They weren’t here for Cole, and they weren’t here because I might be—or might not be—moderately attractive. “We ran into each other during summer break.” Hopefully that was the right thing to say. I wasn’t sure about proper etiquette when dealing with a friend’s ex.
“Where at?” he asked, pretending an ease those M&M eyes failed to project.
“Well, uh … hmm.” How could I answer that without spilling info about myself?
The two boys “guided” me around a corner by pressing their shoulders into mine and steering me. I’d wanted to go the other way, to my locker. Whatever. I could deal. I might not want anything to do with violence, but I could handle myself, even with bruisers like these. My dad had made sure of that.
In fact, I’d taken my dad down a time or twelve, flipping him over, popping his eye and once even